


All by Break of Day

by romanticalgirl



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Think but this, and all is mended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All by Break of Day

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://ladyhamilton.livejournal.com/profile)[**ladyhamilton**](http://ladyhamilton.livejournal.com/)! Happy birthday! Thanks to [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/)**inlovewithnight** for the beta!
> 
> Originally posted 8-5-07

“A fifties musical.”

“Bollocks to that.” Matthew tosses a throw pillow at Ioan, beaning him cleanly upside the head. “You want to write _songs_?”

“Film noir?”

“It’s A Midsummer Fucking Night’s Dream, Ioan, not Hamlet.”

“Eighteenth century regency play then.” Ioan tosses the pillow back, nailing Matthew in the chest. “I don’t fucking know. At least I’m _trying_.”

“Besides, all those ideas are bloody taken.” Matthew stretches out on the floor, shifting onto his side and fanning the pages of the play in front of him. “There’s got to be something, you know? Something that’s good, but not so good that everyone’s gone and snatched it up already.”

“Great. You’ve striving for us to be bloody mediocre. Are you _sure_ my mum was keen on you living with me?”

“You’re not in a bloody cult, are you?”

“Wanker.”

“Arse.” Matthew tosses the pillow again. “Now think.”

“Romantic comedy?”

“It _is_ a fucking romantic comedy, Ioan. It’s the _original_ romantic comedy. It’s so fucking romantic comedy, Hugh Grant’s probably got the rights to the fucking thing.”

“No need to get tetchy.”

“You just suggested we change up the romantic comedy by making it a romantic comedy. How’m I _not_ to get tetchy?”

“You’ve not suggested a damn thing.” Ioan gets to his feet, all long legs and gangliness. “I’m getting a beer. Until you come up with something, I’ve got nothing more to say on the subject.”

“Wanker.”

“Not talking to you.”

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaanker.”

“Fuck off, Rhys.”

“Could make it pornographic.”

“Yes, that’ll fly well. Which part did you intend for me to play? Puck the Delivery lad or Oberon the effete homosexual drag queen?” There’s a short pause and then he peeks out of the kitchen. “Oh, fuck you _very_ much, Rhys.”

“ _Your_ suggestion.”

“I hate you so much it cannot be rendered in mere speech. It needs eloquent hand gestures and possibly a very hard kick to your arse.” Ioan comes back with two beers, and sits cross-legged across from Matthew. “No porn.”

“You spoil all the fun. You know a good buggering would spice up class.”

“A good buggering would spice up Mr. Phillips as well, and I think we can both admit that’s the last thing we want.”

Matthew shudders slightly at the thought. “Pirates? Buddy…road movie thing?”

“Surely neither of those are mediocre enough for you. Pirates traipsing about in the middle of the forest, eh? Not like they’re accidentally tripping across each other in various boats, are they?”

“All right, all right. So they’re shit.” Matthew reaches over and takes the beer from Ioan. “What if we’re going about it all wrong?”

“How d’you mean?”

“What if it’s not the context that needs to be changed?”

Ioan takes a drink and blinks at him, impossibly long lashes taking a good day and a half to travel the distance down to his cheeks and back. “Again, what?”

“Look, everyone’s changing the _style_ , right? What if we just change the tone?” Matthew takes a drag of his beer and sits up. “Instead of making this ‘A Midsummer’s Night Dance at Rydell High’, we make it ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream as done by the disaffected youth of today’.”

“And how’s that to be different than any other reading in class?”

“We take archetypes, right? Like Shakespeare did back in the day. We take…the clown, only we make him a complete stoner, yeah? And we take the beautiful fairy queen, only maybe it _is_ a drag queen. And we take the fairy king, right? And he’s a…a…”

“Neo-Nazi.”

“Right.”

Ioan frowns and rolls the beer bottle in his hands. “And who would we play?”

“Well, obviously, you’d be shit as a Neo-Nazi.”

“I am _not_ playing a fucking drag queen.”

“Or better yet…” Matthew gets to his feet and starts pacing, ignoring the small smile that curves Ioan’s lips as he leans back to watch. “What if we take actual _characters_ from other movies, other plays and drop them into the roles? So you have…Scarlett O’Hara as Tatiana, right? And…um…”

“James Dean in _Rebel Without A Cause_ as Puck?”

“Marlon Brando in _The Godfather_ as Oberon. Or…something.”

Ioan laughs and reaches up, grabbing Matthew’s hand and pulling him back down to the floor. “We’re bloody geniuses, Rhys.”

“Still no idea who we’re going to play.” Matthew picks up a pen and starts scribbling in his notebook. “But Phillips is in for something even better than a buggering.”

“How would you know? You’ve never _had_ a buggering.”

Matthew glances at him and smiles. “That you know of.”

**

“All right.” Matthew takes the last hit off his fag then stubs it out against the plate that serves as their ashtray. “Characters.”

“Hippolyta, Hermia, Helena, Titania.”

“Right.”

“Theseus, Egeus, Lysander, Demetrius, Bottom, Oberon and Puck.”

“Right.” Matthew scratches the list out in a notebook and frowns at it. “That’s a lot of blokes.”

“Well, Puck could go either way, I imagine.”

“I’ll thank you not to impinge on my sexuality that way.”

“Oh, you’re to play Puck, are you?”

”Thought you wanted to be the drag queen.”

“I hate you _so_ much.” Ioan slides off the couch and leans against it, the play open against his thighs. “Then I’m…”

“Whoever you want. We’re doing the casting.”

“Let’s figure out our archetypes first, hmm?” Ioan scans through the play then looks up at Matthew. “Marilyn Monroe.”

“Scarlett O’Hara.”

“Um…Greta Garbo.”

“Nobody in this fucking play _vants_ to be alone, mate.” Matthew rubs his eye and sighs. “Let’s start from the beginning. Hippolyta could be…Monroe?”

“Sure. Hermia could be…um…Maria. _Sound of Music_. Dress her in a wimple. Turns the blokes on.”

“I don’t need to know that kind of shit about your sex life, mate.”

“Wanker.”

“Not while thinking about fucking _nuns_.” Matthew lights another fag and rolls over onto his back. “Helena?”

“Well, she’s quite the little slut, isn’t she?” Ioan stretches his leg out and Matthew shifts around, laying his head on Ioan’s shin. “Maybe she should be the nun.”

“Who’s a proper slut and yet not a porn star?” Matthew takes a hit then holds the fag up to Ioan, watching him as he takes a hit of his own. Licking his lips, he exhales in time with Ioan, marveling as always as Ioan curves his mouth into a circle and blows a perfect ring. “Um…”

”Dorothy. Wizard of Oz. Has blokes following her everywhere. Some of them not even her fucking species.”

“You’re a sick fucker, Gruffudd.”

“Yup.” Ioan takes another hit and blows another ring. “On my better days at least.”

**

“All right.” Matthew sits on the couch, beer in one hand and pen in the other, notebook balanced on his lap. “Down to business. No more of this nancying about. We’re to pick the blokes and get it set down in stone.”

“I’m not drunk enough yet.” Ioan does a shot of whiskey, winces and passes Matthew the bottle. “And I’ve never fucking ‘nancied’ in my entire life.”

“Ioan, love, you’ve fucking nancied since you could walk.” Matthew takes a hit and licks the rim of the bottle then sets the whiskey down, chasing it with a swig of his beer. “You’re the only bloke I know that fucking nancies down the rugby field.”

“I’m going to kill you in your sleep.”

“I’ll hear you swishing.” Ioan nails Matthew in the face with the pillow, nearly knocking his beer out of his hand. “Hey! Watch the beer, mate!”

“Watch your fucking mouth, mate.” Ioan sinks down next to him, looping one leg over Matthew’s and stealing his beer. He presses the bottle against his mouth and swallows, watching Matthew watch him out of the corner of his eye. “What?”

“That’s my beer.”

“Yeah. So?”

“Right.” Matthew turns his attention back to the notebook and not Ioan’s hands or mouth on the bottle. “Theseus.”

“Burton.”

“Burton’s not an archetype.”

“He bloody well is.”

“He is _not_. Not outside of Cardiff. Not unless he’s hanging ‘round Elizabeth Taylor or in a toga.”

“You’re a disservice to Wales, Matthew Evans.”

“I’m trying to pass the fucking class.”

“Traitor.”

“ _Theseus_.”

“Fine. Brando in _The Godfather_.”

“Nice. Better.” Matthew steals the beer back, ignoring Ioan’s annoyed sound. “Egeus.”

“Darth Vader.”

“Darth Vader?”

“Sure. He’s an archetype, right? Ultimate bad guy.” Ioan steals back the beer before Matthew can take a drink, not even bothering to lift it from Matthew’s hand, just tilting it to take a hit from the bottle. “Besides, he can do the whole ‘Hermia, I am your father’.”

“You’re a bloody fucking lunatic.” Matthew jerks the beer back and takes a drink of his own. “Besides, no one’s got the voice.”

“Charlie Chaplin.”

“He’s a silent film star, Ioan.”

“So?”

“So the play’s got bloody dialogue, doesn’t it? Not just dancing dinner rolls.”

“You could help, you know.”

“Fine.” Matthew sighs and leans back, tilting his head so it lands on Ioan’s shoulder. “Clint Eastwood.”

“Ooh. Nice. But what about John Wayne?”

“Better.”

Ioan snags the pen from Matthew’s hand and writes, pressing the notebook against Matthew’s lap. “Every play needs a cowboy.”

“Only if you’re involved.”

“Says the bloke who wants his own fucking ranch.”

“Do not _mock_ my fucking ranch.”

“I want to be the foreman. How’m I to mock it?”

“Damn right.”

**

“Okay.” Matthew slumps on the couch, against Ioan, adopting their all too familiar pose as he tugs the notebook into his lap. He taps the pen on Ioan’s thigh then lets it fall, held loosely between his fingers as he slides his hand along Ioan’s thigh as he thinks. “Lysander.”

“James Bond.”

“Which one?”

Ioan gives him an odd look. “The Ian Fleming one.”

Matthew snorts softly. “You know what I meant. Connery or Moore?”

“Well, Connery, obviously.”

“Why obviously?”

“Because Connery’s better.”

“Don’t be daft. Moore is.” Matthew shifts again, straightening and staring in disbelief at Ioan. “You know that right?”

“No, because Connery is obviously the far superior Bond.”

“You’re…you’re…” Matthew shakes his head and slumps back against the couch. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Just put him in a tux with a martini and call it good.”

“See? Connery’s better.”

“Fine. Lysander can be Connery’s Bond and Demetrius can be Moore’s.”

“Fine.”

“Essentially interchangeable anyway.”

“Right. Except Connery’s better.”

Matthew gives him a look and shakes his head. “You’re deranged. Good thing you’re pretty.”

“I’m more than pretty.” Ioan turns and falls across Matthew’s lap. “I’m _gorgeous_.”

Matthew shakes his head again, smiling, his fingers moving to trace Ioan’s eyebrow. “Gorgeous and so completely misguided.” His fingers keep moving. “Bottom.”

“Indiana Jones.”

“Bottom cannot be Indiana fucking Jones.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s _Indiana fucking Jones_ , you daft git. He’s…he’s fucking _Harrison Ford_. He’s fucking Han Solo. You don’t take Harrison fucking Ford and make him the _butt_ of the joke.”

Ioan laughs. “Okay. Okay, mate. Settle down. You leave my nuns alone, and I won’t mention that you need to stay the hell away from Harrison Ford lest he put out a restraining order.” He thinks for a moment, closing his eyes as Matthew’s fingers graze his cheek. “Inspector Clousseau.”

“Hmph.” Matthew bites his lip as he strokes Ioan’s cheek then lets his finger travel over to the curve of his upper lip. “Better.”

“Benny Hill?”

Matthew laughs. “The old bugger that goes chasing after the girls.”

“Or Doctor Who.”

“Oh. Nice. McCoy?”

“Got to be recognizable without the Tardis, mate.” Ioan’s voice is soft, his lashes dark against his cheeks, against Matthew’s fingertip. “Baker. And the scarf.”

“Right. So that leaves us with me as Puck and Oberon.”

“Mmm.” Ioan’s finger trails lightly along Matthew’s forearm. “Me as Oberon.”

“Was thinking I’d go ahead with James Dean in _Rebel Without A Cause_ , like I thought in the beginning.”

“Good choice.” Ioan nods. “Oberon needs to be a tough guy.”

“He’s king of the _fairies_ , Ioan.”

“Yeah. That’s why he needs to be tough.” Ioan opens his eyes and smiles at him, eyes dark. “I mean, he’s a fairy, yeah, but he’s their _King_.”

“Just means he’s the fairiest of them all.”

Ioan shoves at Matthew’s arm, and Matthew dumps him on the floor, laughing and gasping as Ioan’s grip tightens on him and he tugs him down on top of him. With quick reflexes, Ioan rolls them over, pinning Matthew to the floor. “Sam Spade, at your service.” He manages a serviceable imitation and leans in, his mouth warm above Matthew’s as he breathes him in, before he parts Matthew’s lips with a soft, hungry kiss. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

**

Ioan bounces on the balls of his feet as he watches Matthew move across the stage. His red jacket, white shirt and tight blue jeans are perfect, as is the coif of his hair, styled carefully by Ioan that afternoon in the bathroom of the flat, both of them choked on hairspray and nearly set on fire when Michael walked in with a lit fag.

He can see the rest of the class, enraptured with Matthew’s impersonation, his tone the same as Dean’s as he glides across the stage in a fit of teenaged angst, bemoaning dreams and shadows. He falls to the stage, wild and teetering on a mixture of exhaustion and fury as he spits out the last lines and the curtain goes down and there’s a stunned silence from the audience.

Ioan counts in his head, like the time between lightning and thunder, and suddenly there’s a roar of applause and he grins, rushing the stage, tackling Matthew before anyone else has a chance. Matthew catches him and Ioan practically wraps himself around him, heart beating like a hummingbird in his chest, as the curtain rises again and the rest of the cast – Maria from _Sound of Music_ , Dorothy from _The Wizard of Oz_ , Scarlett O’Hara from _Gone with the Wind_ , both James Bonds and the rest – join them on stage. He detaches himself and takes Matthew’s hand; holding it tightly and no doubt matching Matthew’s shit-eating grin with one of his own as they take their bows.

The after-party starts the second they’re off the stage, with a dousing of champagne dumped over them both. Matthew laughs out loud and jerks Ioan into another hug and they move off, separating themselves from the revelry when they see Mr. Phillips standing in the wings.

“Interesting concept.”

Ioan bites his lower lip to keep from smiling and pushes the mass of wet curls out of his face. Matthew’s hair is falling – hairspray no match for champagne and sweat and hot stage lights, and his eyes are so amazingly blue as he smiles at Ioan.

“A bit dramatic.”

“It is, after all,” Matthew puts in, “a drama class.”

Mr. Phillips makes a face. “Quite.”

“Just tell us.” Matthew’s obviously drunk on something, though Ioan’s not sure if it’s the achievement or the moment or if he’s had a few backstage without Ioan’s knowledge. “Was it better than a buggering?”

**

“I cannot fucking believe you.” Ioan shakes his head, raising his bottle to tap against Matthew’s. “I cannot _fucking_ believe you.”

“It had to be asked.” Matthew takes a drink and smiles. His hair is in his eyes and the dark kohl used to line them is smudged so he looks worse for wear and tired. “And his face. D’you see his face?”

“I thought he was going to have a fit.”

“He _did_ have a fit. It was just all on the inside. His brain exploded in his head. Fucking beautiful.”

“I’d never heard half those words before.”

Matthew laughs and leans back in his chair, legs spread as he sprawls in the low seat. “God, that was brilliant.”

“You were brilliant. You nailed everything.” Ioan shakes his head and downs half his beer. “The look, the accent. Everything.”

Matthew smiles slowly, eyes half closed. “You think?”

“Yeah.” Ioan laughs. “I think.”

“You weren’t so bad yourself, Sam Spade.”

Ioan flushes and shakes his head. “Trench coat, fedora and a fag and anybody could do it.”

“No.” Matthew sets his beer aside and slides to the floor on his knees and crawls across to where Ioan’s sprawled on the couch. “Not just anyone. Remember Owen’s audition.”

“Oh.” Ioan licks his lips and swallows, watching Matthew with dark eyes. “Yes. That was rather…”

“Yeah. So. Not just anyone. Just you.” He moves onto the couch, working his way up Ioan’s body with slow intent.

Ioan reaches out, cupping Matthew’s jaw with long fingers. “My gentle puck, come hither.”

“As if you’d let anyone else boss me around, Gruffudd.” Matthew smiles, his eyes on Ioan’s parted lips. “Still think you should have done it as Brando in _The Wild One_. Could have worn leather trousers.”

“Would have liked that, would you?”

“Maybe if he fails us for this one, we remount it as a seventies era disco with glitter and leather trousers and bare chests and boys snogging. And a Bowie soundtrack.” Matthew leans in and kisses him, mouth warm from the beer.

“Could get a start on the snogging.”

“Mmm. And then some,” Matthew agrees, shifting Ioan’s legs so he can slide between them, cradled against his thighs. “Had a hard-on since you fucking molested me on stage.”

“I was a bit excited.”

Matthew laughs, kissing him again. “Still are from the feel of it.”

“And are you an honest puck?”

“Dunno, mate, but I’m terribly, terribly good at something that rhymes with it.”

Ioan laughs. “Would that be a buggering?”

“No wonder you suck at this, Gruffudd.” Matthew pulls away, reaching for Ioan’s hand and tugging him to his feet, toward the bedroom. “Can’t even rhyme properly.”  



End file.
